As I Come Clean
by jsq
Summary: Maybe this is a different kind of movie. He would like that. He's tired of the ones he's already seen.
1. Evasion

**Author's Note:** The title belongs to Pearl Jam, though this is not a songfic, as those are not my thing. All standard disclaimers apply.

**Chapter 1: Evasion.**

Her eyes open, and she is instantly aware. It's always been that way for her, these seamless transitions into reality...as if she had never been asleep at all, as if she had never been dreaming. This morning's reality consists of her partner's bed, of sheets more expensive than she would've expected, of her partner's arm thrown possessively over her bare hip.

This morning's reality consists of a mistake, and the self-loathing that has been her constant companion for far too many years gathers one more piece of evidence. Now, she must make a decision. This morning's reality paralyzes her, because she has never been one to choose correctly. The glowing red numbers on the night stand flip over, and she knows that she is running out of time, that if she waits too long, the choice will cease to be hers alone.

It is tempting- the idea that she could simply close her eyes and pretend she did not wake up first. And while she is pretending, she can go ahead and believe that the possessiveness of her partner's arm has less to do with the instinctive response of a sleeping man to a naked woman in his bed, and more to do with _her_ specifically. She can pretend that it means that he wants her to stay, that choosing correctly, in this case, means choosing not to move. She can snuggle back into him, and if he wants her to leave, let him be the one to say so.

But Ziva David will not do any of that. She has learned to shoot first, to never let anyone outdraw her, and this morning will be no exception. Besides, she promised herself that she would stop wearing pink-colored glasses when it comes to the men in her life, as it always seems to end in bloodshed. She risks a glance over her shoulder at her peacefully sleeping partner, and she allows that the odds of this one resulting in death are slim...but that there will be loss all the same.

The self-loathing hits her again with a blow that steals her breath, because she truly cannot afford another loss, and because she truly does not know how to minimize this one. To go, or to stay? The key to the correct answer lies in the feelings of the sleeping man beside her, but she did not bother to ask about those last night, and she fears the answer, even after all this time. Especially after all this time.

Better to go, than to be asked to leave by one of the only people she holds dear. She draws her breath and rolls out of the grip he has on her hip. He does not move, and she snatches on her clothes. Three minutes. She is out the door three minutes before his alarm goes off.

oOo

He feels her go. Through the fog that always accompanies his transition into wakefulness, he realizes that she is going to walk away. Because he is not fully awake, not fully himself, he is tempted to tighten his hold on her hip, to press his fingers into the hollow beneath the bone, to keep her beside him. With his eyes still closed, he almost says exactly what he wants to say. _Stay._

Enough reality seeps in to his jumbled mind to force him to keep his grip loose and his mouth shut. He can smell the uncharacteristically girly herbal shampoo she uses lingering on the pillow beside him as she quietly gathers her clothes. He has seen this film before, and he almost laughs, because in another life, this would've been a dream come true- the woman doing the leaving, not needing a goodbye.

He gets that this is karma, inevitable and no less than he deserves, but he's still a little bit asleep, so he indulges in the illusion that maybe she's not leaving him here with nothing but the smell of her shampoo. She slips out of his bedroom, but maybe she's going to make breakfast, or get coffee. Maybe they aren't the them they've always been. Maybe they've grown, _finally. _Maybe they'll talk about this like two people who aren't all wrong for each other. Maybe this is a different kind of movie.

He would like that. He's tired of the ones he's already seen.

His partner is quiet, but Tony is attuned to her, and he hears her as she closes the front door on her way out. And now he's more awake than asleep, so he knows she won't be returning with coffee and a danish. He knows she won't be returning.

He wonders what he, what _they,_ were thinking, and he hates that they've devolved into such a tired cliche. He hates that literally everyone could've seen this coming. He hates himself. He hates her, or at least he wishes that he did.

He is too old for this. Another cliche, and he hates that too.

He stretches, eyes tightly shut, refusing to give in to the impending morning. Ziva made her choice. Or...

He is a detective, after all, trained to view a situation from all possible angles...and it is still possible that they have grown...it is possible that there are, in fact, other angles. Yes, he could say Ziva made her choice. But he could also say Ziva made her move. Which would mean that he had yet to make his.

The shrill of the alarm echoes through his room, and he finally opens his eyes.

**TBC**


	2. An Evening in Review

**Chapter 2: An Evening in Review.**

Consenting adults do not accidentally have sex. It's a myth, this idea floating around that sometimes sex "just happens." No matter how intense things are getting, there's always a choice, there's always an opportunity to decide the consequences outweigh the benefits. Last night was no exception.

_The knock at his door startles him. It's only 8:00 PM, but still- he doesn't usually have unexpected visitors. He sets the glass of water he just poured back onto the counter and glances down at his pajama pants and t-shirt with a shrug. If his guest cared about appearances, he should have called first._

_Of course the person at the door is a she, not a he, and from the look of things, appearances are the last thing on her mind._

"_What's wrong?" Because something has to be wrong. For Ziva to be here, in the dark, with no makeup, with her hair twisted into a bun, without the high heels that signal to everyone that she's just fine. His heart rate spikes as he prepares for the sky to fall._

_But she smiles back at him, a normal Ziva smile. "Nothing is wrong." _

_He does a quick assessment- all of her parts are in place. There is no bleeding, and he sees no sign of tears that have been beaten into submission. She looks scrubbed down, exposed, but not hurt. Not angry either. He relaxes. "Then what are you doing here?"_

_She flinches at that, and he wishes that he'd injected a little humor into the question, but he's feeling scrubbed down too and just too tired to play at night the part he owns by day. She stammers, and he begins to revise his conclusion that everything is fine. At the last second her face brightens, and she holds up the dvd in her left hand. "I brought a movie. I thought you'd like to watch it together."_

_This is so not what they do anymore, but he's intrigued. He leans over to examine the box in her hand and fights a sigh. The title is written in a language of squiggles that he can only assume is Hindi. Bollywood? Seriously? Yes, he watches a lot of movies, but do his friends think that means he'll watch anything? His eyes return to hers, and his curiosity conquers his good taste as he holds the door open for her to pass. "Sure. Sounds great."_

_They settle at opposite ends of the couch. She watches the film. He watches her. He wonders if she has to read the subtitles, or if she speaks Hindi too. It wouldn't surprise him, but he does find it a little disappointing that even after all this time, there is so much of her about which he is still unsure. _

_One hundred and fifty minutes int the movie (this is one of his biggest complaints about Bollywood- a total lack of efficiency in storytelling), Ziva does something that changes everything. She burrows her feet underneath his legs, as if she's trying to get warm. Something in that simple gesture makes his chest clench, and he is certain that he loves her._

_She must sense the shift in his mood, because for the first time all night, she turns her attention from the movie, to him. She touches her hair and face in that self-conscious way people do when they realize someone is staring. "What?"_

_There's a little more aggression than is strictly necessary in her question, and he chuckles as the Ziva he's used to makes an appearance. Still, she's waiting for an answer, and he forgets to think, so he tells her the truth. "I wish your hair was down."_

_Now he wants to kill himself. "I wish your hair was down?" What the fuck? He waits for the blow- physical or verbal- that she is bound to deliver, but she surprises him again. She reaches up and pulls out the tie that is holding her hair in place._

_Whoa. Well, hell. Her curls tumble (yes, tumble) down her back, and there is no way he is not going to kiss her. She watches as he leans over her. She knows what's coming, and she doesn't back away. The first kiss is tentative, a test. He pulls back, gives her a chance to choose. He searches her face for a warning, but all he finds is relief._

Last night did not just happen, and he'd be damned if he'd let her turn it into a mistake. He smiles as he runs product through his hair. His reexamination of the previous night's events confirm that she started this and that he is now the wronged party. Tony tightens his tie, ready to go to work. Ready to refuse to let his partner off the hook.

oOo 

_I did this, I did this, I did this_...the words circle through her head like a prayer. The office is still dark when she steps out of the elevator. She's beaten everyone, even Gibbs. Gibbs, who would somehow know and would be so disappointed in her. She groans and buries her head on her desk. How could she have allowed herself to behave like a person with loved ones to spare?

_A mistake. Coming in here was a mistake. Her Thursday night ritual- a stop at the Indian shop in Adams Morgan to borrow a Hindi film like the ones she'd loved as a child- had turned on her. Most Thursdays, it is just her, Mrs. Kharel and stacks of sari fabric in the store. Tonight, though, she is not the only woman in D.C. craving the comfort of films from the past. There is another lady, slightly older than her, beautiful in an indigo hijab. Somali. She is without a doubt Somali, and that is fine...except...the incense. She smells like a particular kind of incense, and it is a smell Ziva knows too well._

_The saris and the henna and the tabla music fade away, and she is in the desert, in the temporary shelter of a tent. She is hurt, bleeding, and sand is seeping into her open wounds. She is going to die. She is so ready. Salim enters, and she tenses. Trailing behind him is a Somali woman, young, in a grey hijab. Ziva recognizes the terror on the woman's face. Salim shouts at her in harsh Arabic, ordering her to treat Ziva's wounds. If she could talk, Ziva would remind him that they do not speak Arabic in Somalia. Surely, he must know that. Still the woman must understand, because she is leaning over her. The smell of incense is overpowering._

_Ziva opens her eyes to the present. She is no longer in the store; she is leaning against the side of the cinderblock building. She is trembling violently, and she is facing a very concerned Mrs. Kharel. She forces a smile and accepts the dvd that is held out to her by the Somali woman. She nods at the women, hopes it convinces them that she is not insane. She turns on her heel, walks away._

_By the time she makes it home, she is gasping for breath, caught in a full panic. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. She had heard those words over and over from the NCIS psychologist in the months following her return. "Have you experienced any signs of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder?" Her answer was always no, and it was the truth. So why now, nearly two years later? Did one flashback equal PTSD? Could PTSD mean that she would lose her job, and the only place she had?_

_She is going to faint. If she does not get control right now, she is going to faint._

_She begins to scold herself in Hebrew. Smell is the most powerful sense. Her reaction was reasonable, if not desirable. It will not happen again. PTSD is only diagnosed when the symptoms regularly disrupt daily life. Her daily life is fine. The flashback was an anomaly. She is fine._

_She is fine._

_She scrubs her face, twists her hair back and puts on the most comfortable clothes she owns. She curls up on her couch, but her heart is still racing. She breathes deeply. She tenses and relaxes her muscles. _

_She cannot stay here alone. Not tonight. _

_She drives to Tony's townhouse. She remembers how to get there, even though it's been years. Her memory is excellent. She is calm by the time she parks. She is okay now; she could go back home._

_But she doesn't want to. And tonight, she would just really like to simply get what she wants. So she goes to the door._

_As she settles into the couch beside him, all she can think is that she has no memory of grabbing the dvd before she left the house. But all is well that ends well._

_They do not finish the movie. They trade the couch for his bed, and they have sex that is quieter, _nicer, _somehow than she imagined it would be (of course she had imagined it). "I had no idea my hair was such a turn-on," she teases, and it is a test. Are they okay?_

"_I don't buy that for a second." He winks at her, and she loves him for him that. _

_Even after trips to the bathroom suck any romantic magic out of the scene, they are relaxed. There is no mention of any enumerated rules. They laugh. He wraps his arm around her, as if it is a forgone conclusion that she will stay._

_And she loves him. And that cannot end well._

The panic is returning, so she scolds herself in Hebrew. It will be okay. She gave them an out, and surely that was her best chance to mitigate any possible loss.

The elevator dings, and she prepares herself to follow his lead.


	3. Hide and Seek

**Chapter 3: Hide and Seek**

His resolve to handle this with a quiet maturity rarely associated with the name DiNozzo lasts through his drive to the Navy Yard, through the scan of his ID, through his morning flirtation with Estelle, the first floor cleaning lady. It lasts through his wait for the elevator and through the ride to his floor.

It does not survive the sight of her.

And how could it? When she's trading pleasantries with McGoober like it's any other morning? When there's no flicker in her expression that gives her away? When they're here, in real life, but her hair is still down, and all he can think is that he loved her last night?

His resolve was dependent on the hypothesis that Ziva was running scared, when maybe she she was just running away.

His new maturity begins to lose to old insecurities.

oOo

He will not even look at her. Is it because she stayed too long, or because she did not stay long enough? She does not know, and she understands that her current misery is entirely her own fault, but that does not temper the thought that crosses her mind- she could waterboard the truth out of him.

Ah, the old days. Life was easier when sentimentality did not stand a chance against practicality and efficiency.

Except that it was not, not really. And now, Tony will not look at her, and it reminds her of the not-so-distant past when she found herself right back in a life devoid of feeling. He gave her another chance after that, defying all logic and sense of justice.

She is not yet American enough to believe that one is given an endless supply of chances.

Her thoughts lead to panic, similar to that which she experienced the night before. She prides herself on her steadiness, on her refusal to show weakness, but her pride is having a difficult time standing tall against everything she has to lose.

She stops listening to McGee and his summary of his new book. She is breathing shallowly and casting looks at Tony, willing him to meet her eyes. To see that she is sorry, for whichever transgression he chooses. Her partner, though, focuses on his computer screen, transparently refusing to see her. And McGee, well, he is not an idiot. He is busy casting worried glances between the two of them, making pitiful jokes in that way he does when he senses something is off- in the manner of a powerless child, trying to make mommy and daddy like each other again.

This situation is not sustainable, and it might have been brought to some sort of resolution, but Gibbs appears out of nowhere- in that way that _he _does, and they have a case. Gear is grabbed, and the hair she had left down (just in case) is twisted into a tight, non-scene-contaminating bun. She is panicking, but she is also a professional.

She has always excelled at multi-tasking.

oOo

Right now, he can't really remember why he even bothered to get out of bed today. It's not like he didn't know from the moment he heard Ziva walking away that it was going to be shitty. And here he is, standing in the cold rain, watching all of his evidence wash away.

But he did get up, and he did leave his maturity somewhere in the elevator this morning, and he is still reeling from the sting of rejection, as well as hurt that goes a little deeper, so who can blame him for being low on patience?

His team, if you could judge by the number of Gibbs' head-slaps and the ferocity of McGlower's stares. And then there is Ziva, practically cowering from him, casting him wounded puppy-dog looks. What the hell is that? Seriously, what kind of game is she playing? First of all, _she _is the one who did all of the wounding in this scenario, and second of all, Ziva does not cower. So not only is he pissed at her, he's worried about her, which only serves to make him _really_ pissed at her. She looks so fragile standing there in the rain with her little evidence flags, that he's already gone through the events of last night and this morning three times just to make sure he didn't, in fact, do anything wrong.

All he can think of is that he didn't let her finish the stupid Bollywood movie, but no one ever finishes those things, right? They're a million hours long. A million hours long and full of group dance numbers. That couldn't be held against him.

So, yeah, Ziva shouldn't get to stand there all sad-eyed. Pathetic isn't a look that becomes her.

He feels another sharp sting to the back of his head, and that is _it. _He pulls a fist, and it is pure instinct. Thankfully, his brain jumps into action just in time to prevent that fist from making any sudden moves.

"I said, we're heading out," his boss looks him over carefully, then cuts his eyes toward the brunette responsible for most of Tony's bad days. "Fix it."

And fuck it, he just doesn't care anymore. "She started it."

His boss remains as indecipherable as the Sphinx. "Yeah, DiNozzo, but I'm telling you to finish it."

He allows himself a daydream in which his fist actually connects with his boss's face, because who doesn't have those dreams every now and then, before he dutifully follows him back to the van. Gibbs is driving, and neither McGee nor Ziva is riding shotgun, each having claimed his or her own bench. Tony has his pick, and since when push comes to shove, he's always been one to follow orders, he climbs in beside Ziva. He sees real happiness flash across those wounded eyes of hers, and suddenly the day is looking up.

He whips his head around, spraying her with icy rainwater. She gasps, and he grins. Revenge.

**TBC (one more chapter to go, and it will be up before the premier)**


	4. Coming Clean

**Chapter 4: Coming Clean**

Tiny drops of cold rainwater trickle down her face, and she is at peace. Neither she nor Tony had ever been taught how to love someone without hurting them, so she knows that he would never take the time to torment her if he did not care. Regardless of what they decide to make of the night before, their partnership, their friendship, is still in tact. Ziva absorbs the thrill of one more bullet dodged and leans over to wipe her dripping face on his t-shirt before leaning back into her seat.

Her good mood fails to permeate the rest of the van, the occupants of which have no knowledge of her narrowly-avoided defeat and are too focused on the unpleasant weather and the disappointing investigation to be suspicious of her shifting moods. So she mimics their impenetrable gazes and their stony silences. On the outside, she is all faux-solemnity, while on the inside, she runs a victory lap- careful, in her unpracticed giddiness to avoid another interaction with her partner.

Again, with the multi-tasking.

She manages to maintain her facade through their ride to the Navy Yard, through their trip on the elevator, through her boss's harsh delegation of assignments. It slips, though, the moment Tony makes his way toward the men's room. She bolts from her seat, and she forgets to care that she is giving herself away. She is only seconds behind him, and surely he expects her, but he does not show it.

He shoots her a wry look from over his pile of paper towels. "Really?"

She shrugs and slides the lock into place. "It has always worked for us in the past." Which is the truth. She has become quite fond of this bathroom and the way it seems to hold all the answers.

He does not respond, and she is the one who has seen this film before. So, she begins how she began last time- with an apology. "I am sorry, Tony."

And he looks her over carefully, and again with the deja vu. "For what, Ziva?"

This is the tricky part. "I am sorry for leaving without a word this morning. I...I was unsure of what...I am sorry for putting our partnership at risk- again...I...something happened when I went to get the movie...it was stupid...I did not want to be alone-"

"What happened? When you went to get the movie, what happened?"

His face now holds nothing but concern for her, and she is once again certain that she loves him. "I remembered."

He does not ask for further explanation, he does not look away. "You're okay?" The concern still coats his words.

She nods, and she does not want him to misunderstand. "I was okay even before I arrived at your door."

He takes that in, and she watches him turn her words over in his head before he settles on a response. "That has to mean something, right? That you remembered, and it shook you and that you came to me? Or are your pickings just that slim?"

That last line was spoken with patented DiNozzo bravado, but she easily sees past it, to the insecurity it masks. It hurts her. "I believe my pickings could be described as average. I would say it means something."

She is treading carefully, but his sigh tells her that he has tired of caution. "So tell me what it means, Ziva. What are we calling last night? A one-night-stand that was probably inevitable, but that will never happen again now that we've gotten it out of our system? The beginning of some sort of casual sex pact between friends? Or the start of an attempt at happily ever after?"

"I did not realize the choice was mine to make." And she really hadn't.

He smoothed his hands over his face, looking back at her with tired eyes. "Are you ready for some truth?"

"I believe I can handle it."

Her joke hits its mark. "_A Few Good Men_, well done, Grasshopper."

She does not understand the bit about the insect, but it does not matter, because Tony does not appear to be in the mood to dwell.

"So here's the truth. I don't really know how much you remember from our little _tete-a-tete _in the desert, seeing as how you were in pretty bad shape and all, but...I meant it when I said I couldn't live without you. I tried. I didn't like it. So, you know, whatever you want. I'm in."

oOo

He isn't very good at this, and the realization catches him off guard. He's tripping over his words, making awkward jokes. It's like he's channeling McGee. Hell, this is the only part of relationships he's ever been good at- the charming, the sweet talking. If he can't do this right, they're doomed.

He tries really hard to stand his ground, not to look away, but he pretty much just bared his soul, and Ziva is just gaping, and damned if he knows if that's good or bad. The urge to fidget, to ramble, to deflect is visceral, but he has to hold on just a little longer.

Old habits die today.

"The start of an attempt at happily ever after."

That's what she says, but she has that accent, and he's too agitated to be able to decipher if it is an answer or a question. But if he means that crap about old habits, then it is time to start assuming the best in place of the worst. "That's your choice?"

His question seems to stun her, and _Come on, Ziva. Just pick a side already. _

"I...Why is it that Americans are so enamored of fairy tale imagery?

No way. If he doesn't get to deflect, neither does she. Going against all of his instincts, he reaches out and grabs her hand. "Let's just have this conversation. Let's try something different and just say what we mean."

"Try something different?"

"Yeah. If it doesn't work, we can always run back to innuendo and half-truths. You know, our bread and butter."

Her eyes do that squinty thing, but she doesn't ask for an explanation, and she doesn't bemoan his incessant use of idioms. No, she puts on her investigator face. "Let us say that is my answer. We will attempt a happily ever after. What if we fail?"

"Why would we fail?" He's at it again, trying for bravado that's never going to fool her.

"We are who we are, Tony."

"True...but, I don't know...I think we've proven that when we devote our full effort to a goal, we make a pretty good team. Maybe we shouldn't make judgements based on the worst versions of ourselves."

"Because there are other versions."

"Of course there are."

He watches her take that in, and he knows he's completely shown his hand with this vigorous defense. Fine. He's all in.

"Okay. But still. What happens if we fail?"

And he gets it, because neither of them has very much outside of the little world they've created in the Navy Yard. "Then we do it with grace."

The light is back in her eyes. "With grace. Deal."

He gets ahead of himself. "Deal? As in, that's it?"

She slows him down with an upheld palm. He allows it, because he sees where this is going. He is, for once, heading for a win, so he's willing to take his time.

"What about Gibbs?"

Tony snorts, because he loves the man, but his mind is made up, and there is no way he's losing out on this because his boss has grown bitter. "You're the trained spy," he says, feeling confident enough to joke, "are you saying you can't keep a secret?"

"I am saying I do not wish to do so."

That. Right there. Proof that they are already better than who they had been. "Then we won't. We'll prove the fallacy of Rule 12. If he won't give us that, then we'll accept the consequences."

"Because this happily ever after is worth the consequences?"

And there it is, the heart of the matter. "I think so. Do you?"

There is a pause, and he really tries not to hold his breath. Finally, in her matter-of-fact way, she speaks. "I do."

And he really wishes he were capable of reigning in his smile, because he thinks it's quite likely that she will hold it over him forever, but she's smiling too. It's smaller, much more reserved, but it's the Ziva equivalent of turning cartwheels down the length of the men's room, so he thinks he's probably safe.

"That settles it, then. Should we spit in our hands and shake on it?"

The look she gives him completely makes up for the last eight hours. "You are disgusting," she hisses in a way that assures them that they are still who they are.

"You don't know the half of it," he hisses right back as he follows her out of the men's room.

And he smiles to himself, because while she may not know the half it, they have nothing but time. She will.

**Fin- Thank you to for sticking with this story. Enjoy the premier tomorrow night!**


End file.
